


Tug of War (A Lennon McCartney choose your own adventure story)

by Savageandwise



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Choose Your Own Adventure, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-10-29 11:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: "...I've always wondering how would be your take on the famous "John lives" scenario...I would find it extremely interesting to read what you think their reaction would be after John's shooting. Would they realize they can't live without each other? Or is it too late now anyway?"-prompted by anonEarly in the morning Paul receives a call that his friend and former songwriting partner John Lennon was shot and is in critical condition. What happens next?You tell me...





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this on here today so I have 70 fics. ;-) it's my birthday gift to myself. 
> 
> I want to try something new. I'm posting this fic in small instalments on Tumblr and on here. Please comment! I'm inviting you to send suggestions for what happens next. I'll ask you to pick 1 of 2 paths. You make the story! The majority of votes wins. Sorry! But I'll let you know what would have happened.
> 
> Please read the note at the end to choose the next scene.
> 
> This kind of sucks actually. But i haven't had much energy to write. So. Sorry!!! I'll try to be better. Assuming people read!

For hours after the call Paul's brain kept skipping like a scratched LP. Like the magnitude of the situation was too large for his brain to grasp. He made himself a cup of tea, went through a pile of mail and sat staring at the phone for long, bleak stretches unable to remember why he was so upset. And then it would hit him and he'd find himself gasping, fish-out-of-water, hands clammy, vision blurred. He couldn't recall hearing the phone ring, didn't remember answering it, he didn't know who called him. Fred Seaman? Elliot Mintz? Not Yoko. Not one of the others.

Someone shot John. That was the news that sucked the air out of the world.

The caller explained they'd driven John to Roosevelt Hospital in a police cruiser and were doing everything they could to keep him alive. Everything they could. Everything humanly possible. But he wasn't out of the woods yet. Paul remembered thinking in a detached way, that it was a bit like a cliche riddled television drama. He wanted to ask who wrote the script. Instead he thanked the caller politely and put down the phone.

He had managed to find his suitcase and was sitting in front of it still dressed in his pyjamas smoking cigarette after cigarette and letting the ash drop to the carpet when Linda got home. She knew immediately something was deeply wrong and fired a whole arsenal of questions at him. Linda was like that, so attuned to his moods she could read him like a book. Sometimes she let him off the hook. Not today.

"You burned a hole in the rug," she noted. 

They had four children. She wasn't upset by a little mess. She seemed upset by the casual way he stubbed his cigarette into the Persian carpet. She squatted down beside him and put her hands on his arms.

"You're freezing, Paul. What's wrong?" 

"What's the weather like in New York right now?" he said, ignoring her question.

Linda just stared at him. "Is this about John? Did something happen?"

Paul always thought he was good at keeping things hidden. He was a northern man. Raised to keep his feelings bottled up inside. When it came to John though, all bets were off.

"He was shot. He's still unconscious apparently. But hanging on. Of course I'll have to catch the earliest flight. I have to be there."

"Oh no!" Linda breathed. "Oh, Paul. What happened? Who shot him?"

"I have to go," Paul repeated.

"On the earliest flight?" Linda asked blankly, "by the time I get the kids packed…have you called George? Or...or...Ringo? Are they going?"

He hadn't. He hadn't planned anything. All he knew was that he had to fix things before it was too late. It might already be too late. 

"Even if he's stable you might not be able to speak to him. Just try to...I'll make you a cup of tea and we'll think it through. How does that sound?"

Paul lit another cigarette. He wasn't listening to her, he was thinking of all the things he never said to John. All the things they never did. He was thinking about how it felt to lose him all those years ago. And how it would feel if John died now with their friendship still on the rocks.

"Paul?" Linda shook his arm gently. "Are you listening to me?"


	2. The Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B. Paul travels to New York on his own desperate to see John again.

In the end the threw an armful of clothes into the case and called a taxi. In the time it took to do that, George already rang. Paul let Linda answer the phone. 

"He's just leaving now," she said. Her voice was tight and strange. "Paul?" she called out. "It's George." 

He waved her away and put on his coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck. "I'll call him from the airport," he said, lifting his case. "Kiss the kids."

Linda stared at him, mouth agape. Paul could hear the tinny sound of George's voice on the other end. 

"He's not flying there is he? Linda? Give me the phone."

Before Linda could press the receiver into his hand, Paul opened the door and stepped outside. "I love you," he said to his wife. It sounded slightly off like he was repeating sounds that made words in a language he didn't speak.

The next flight to New York was in three hours but he didn't call George as promised. He called Yoko instead. He got some assistant who was clearly exhausted and hysterical. He kept repeating Mr. and Mrs. Lennon weren't available and he didn't know what Paul was talking about. The man's broken, nasal voice and flustered vacillating brought out a fatherly side in Paul. He gently assured the assistant he was doing a great job and asked him to tell Mrs. Lennon that Paul McCartney was on his way to New York. He'd call again when he landed. 

The next thing he did was buy himself a large whiskey and then another. On the plane, he made sure his glass was never empty. He gave a man ten US dollars for his whole pack of cigarettes and smoked one after the other until the little ashtray on the armrest of his seat was overflowing. He kept on going over the last few conversations he had with John. He realised three things with a sickening jolt: 

One: he was very drunk indeed.

Two: he was praying, harder than he'd ever prayed before, that he would get to see John again, that it wasn't too late.

Three: he understood now, at last, what John had been trying to tell him all those years.

He'd once heard John describe his relationship with Brian Epstein as 'almost a love affair'. That's how he'd describe his relationship with John. Almost a love affair, not quite. They'd written love songs for each other, they'd wanked side by side in Paris, trembling with barely checked desire for each other. Paul fantasised about Paris so often he sometimes had trouble remembering what really happened. He'd never rolled on top of John, kissed him full on the mouth. They'd never grappled with each other on that narrow bed, hard through the threadbare cotton of their pyjama trousers. They'd never clung to each other sticky with spilled seed, gasping for air, laughing with relief and release.

They'd come side by side, biting back their moans, thighs rubbing against each other as they wanked. He'd wanted John to put his hand on his prick, finish rubbing one out until he spilled all over his hand. He'd never wanted anything so badly in his life. Not money, not luxuries not even success. His climax had felt like dying. John had come a second later, his breath deafening in Paul's ears.

There were other moments too. Some less physical but more intense emotionally. There were a handful of half arsed futile conversations about the nature of the friendship. It was John who'd suggested consummating the thing, seemingly out of nowhere in India. He'd tried again later in New York during that ill-fated trip, Mal and Neil the next room over, laughing with Linda as John slid his hands up Paul's thighs behind the locked door.

"I can't do it like this," Paul had said. "Not with...not here." 

John put his hand squarely against his groin, his eyes flashing defiantly. "You're so hard."

Paul had shaken his head. The week after that it had been over. And he'd spent the next decade wondering if he shouldn't have just let it happen.

By the time they'd finally reunited in L.A. five years ago, Paul was singing a different tune. He'd been the one making overtures, trying to mend broken fences.

"They're not broken so much as pulverised, Paul. We dropped a fucking atom bomb on those fences."

All the same he'd seemed amenable, he'd seemed like he might consider giving it a go when all at once Yoko was back in the picture.

John was in hospital, hanging on by a thread and he was dead drunk on a plane, conjuring up every lust filled moment they'd ever shared. Shame surged through him. If John made it, he'd make sure they patched things up. He'd make sure they made music again. And then he'd do the one thing he'd never done before. He'd tell John he'd been wrong.

His head was killing him when they arrived at JFK airport, his mouth was dry and felt like he'd been eating wallpaper. He should have realised it was too good to be true when he breezed through customs. The press was waiting at arrivals. The flash of a hundred cameras. The frantic shouting of the journalists, like dogs crazed with starvation.

Are you here because of what happened to John? 

Do you have news?

Did they tell you who did it?

Are you worried you're next?

That fucking assistant, Fred what's his name. He'd loosed the hounds of hell on him.

The drive to Roosevelt Hospital seemed to take ages. They were stuck in traffic for well over thirty minutes and Paul kept drifting in and out of sleep. He woke to the strains of 'All My Loving' and the taxi pulling up to the hospital.

When he'd imagined this it was easy. He walked in and a pretty nurse escorted him to John's room. John was just waking up. Pale and weak looking but alive. When he saw Paul his lips curled into a small smile. 

That's not how it went down. When he got inside the receptionist wouldn't even admit John was a patient there at first.

"Are you family?" she asked, looking him up and down. 

She bloody well knew the answer to that, Paul thought angrily. Strike that. Even he didn't know the answer to it. No one did anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Paul:
> 
> A. insist on seeing John at once, prepared to force his way into John's room if he has to?
> 
> B. wait for Yoko to meet him at the receptionist and update him on John's condition?
> 
> If you chose A, I'm sorry I don't have time to write both options but here's what would have happened:
> 
> Paul stays in London with Linda and the kids until news of John's improved condition arrives. They travel to New York after about two weeks. At the airport the press is waiting for Paul. They imply the rift between him and John is still bigger than ever because he's only now made it to New York to visit. Ringo visited after 3 days. They make it to the hospital where after some discussion Yoko allows Paul to see John though sadly not on his own. When he sees his friend in bed, still fragile and barely able to sit up he realises what he means to him but is unable to say anything with Yoko there. He's grateful Linda is there for him.


	3. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Roosevelt Hospital, Paul is determined to see John by hook or by crook what happens when he does?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a bit. Work and health stuff. And Inktober. The majority picked A so here it is! Thanks so much for reading and encouraging! I'm sorry if i didn't pick your option. I hope you continue reading anyway and that it's not too unrealistic for you!

Paul leaned over and gave the nurse a small smile. "Do you know who I am? I'm Paul McCartney. I'd like to see Mr. Lennon now. Can you arrange it? I'd be very grateful." 

She stared at him for a moment in wide-eyed shock and then made a small indecisive sound. "It's only family and even their visits are limited."

He tilted his head to one side. "To all intents and purposes I'm his brother," Paul wheedled. "You understand."

The woman looked down at her desk, her cheeks flushing awkwardly. "I'm sorry but it's a matter of security."

"He'd want you to...he'd want to see me. To let me see him. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement," Paul insisted.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. McCartney," she murmured. 

He could tell she was wavering slightly she just needed a push.

"Please," he said urgently. "Please." He tried to inject something pitiful into his voice but he mostly sounded impatient. If she didn't tell him what room John was in he'd have to try his luck with Yoko. 

She shook her head sharply, unable to meet his eye.

"What would you like?" he asked. "Money? Tickets?"

Paul took out his wallet and pulled out a sheaf of bills he set them down on the counter. After a moment of hesitation the woman scooped them up and put them in her pocket.

"Seventh floor. Room 702. There's police there though."

The officer looked about fifteen, baby faced and wide-eyed. Paul figured it would be a piece of cake to get past him.

"I would like to see Mr. Lennon, please," Paul said determinedly. 

"Name please," the policeman said, he looked down at the clipboard he was holding.

"McCartney, Paul."

Paul wondered who could possibly be on the list other than Yoko and Sean. Mimi? Unlikely. He wasn't very surprised when the policeman looked up again and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. McCarthy, sir."

"McCartney," Paul said in an irritated tone.

"You're not on the list, sir," the young man said in a firm but calm tone.

Paul considered the man's size and wondered if he could push past him into the room before he could grab his weapon. Unlikely.

"I've come a very long way. All the way from London. I insist you let me through. Do you know who the Beatles were? I'm his family. You need to let me in," Paul said. He was practically shouting now.

"You need to take a step back and let go of my arm, sir."

Paul looked down at his hand, he was gripping the young officer's forearm. He released it at once.

"Step back, I'll ask you one more time then I'll have to remove you by force," the man said, raising his voice.

Behind him, Paul heard the faint 'ding' of the elevator and then the sound of footsteps.

"It's alright, Officer Brennan."

Paul would recognise that small, child-like, slightly accented voice anywhere. He whirled around to face her, his stomach sinking. She was dressed in black, her long dark hair pulled away from her face. In her hand was a piece of paper covered in crayon markings, a child's drawing.

"Yoko," Paul whispered.

"Ma'am?" the policeman asked gently. "Shall I escort him to the exit?"

She shook her head sharply. "Let him pass. Let him see what he came to see." 

She looked so small, so tired. She looked old. Paul's first instinct was to fold her in his arms. His second instinct was to run into John's room.

"Yoko," he repeated, letting her name just hang there, his voice high pitched with uncertainty. He felt like he should explain himself somehow but there was no good explanation. He stank of cigarettes and alcohol and she'd just caught him trying to force his way into John's hospital room. 

"It's alright, Paul. It's what you came for, isn't it?"

She walked up to the door and opened it, put her hand on Paul's for a split second before entering the room. 

John was in the bed. There was a tube in his mouth and tubes snaking from his arms into sacs of fluid. He was so thin, his skin was pale and waxy, stretched too tight over his bones. The monitor beside the bed was beeping, gentle green spikes blinked on the dark screen, his heart was beating, John was alive. Paul felt his breath catch in his throat.

"What have they done to you?" he whispered.

"They couldn't find a vein. Imagine that?" Yoko said.

She placed Sean's drawing on the bed side table and moved forward to smooth the blanket covering John's legs. She let out a soft sound that could have been a nervous laugh or a sob.

"His heart gave out twice. They had to pump him full of blood, litres and litres of it. His artery was shredded. I don't know, Paul. They said they'd do everything they could. But they have to say that to everyone."

Paul took a step closer. Let his hand waver over John's foot before withdrawing it again. 

"What happened?" he asked.

"This guy. This crazy guy. He was hanging around the building but...well no one thought much of it. We got home from the studio and he shoots John in the back. Right there. With me and David watching."

"I should have…" Paul began.

"Should have what? What could you have done?" she asked bitterly. 

"I should have called more. I should have…" 

He looked at her, John's wife, her dull black eyes and thin lips. Her bony hands clasped on the cotton sheet. Why was he telling her this? What could she possibly say to him?

"Should have. Me too. Lots of things I should have done," she said.

There was a loud long beep from the monitor beside the bed and then that straight, flat line, that sickening sound that went on for ages. Just like in a film. And Yoko stood, jammed her finger into the button to call the nurse. 

"Get help!" she shouted. "Paul!" 

He stood there, unable to move, unable to think. He felt Yoko push past him into the hall, heard her shouts for help and then the figures in white crowding into the room pushing him out of the way. He struggled for a moment in someone's arms and then he went still. 

"Please. I'll be quiet. Let me stay," Paul pleaded.

A strong arm encircled his shoulders. "Mr. McCartney, sir," Officer Brennan said softly. "Let the doctors do their job. Let's get you and Mrs. Lennon a nice cup of coffee."

Several cups of coffee and many cigarettes later they were still waiting for news. Yoko’s face was puffy from crying. She got up to call Sean from a payphone and then hung up again.

"What's the point? What do I tell him?" 

It occurred to Paul that he still hadn't called Linda to say he'd landed safely. She was probably worried sick. A nurse arrived to tell them John was stable again. She explained that his doctor was on his way and would give them the specifics of John's condition. She told them a great mob of journalists was waiting outside the hospital hoping for news. The hospital was willing to send someone to talk to them if that was what Yoko preferred.

Yoko looked up from her cup blearily. "I should probably do it. If I stay they'll say I didn't care enough to speak with them. And if I go they'll say I didn't look sad enough. I can't win, can I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Paul:
> 
> A. Let Yoko handle the press while he calls Linda to update her?
> 
> B. Offer to speak to the press on Yoko’s behalf?
> 
> If you picked B for part 3:
> 
> Paul would have waited for Yoko at reception, called Linda to tell her of his arrival. Linda is concerned about how Paul sounds and thinks he should come back after checking into a hotel. He cuts the call short when Yoko appears. Yoko is shocked at his appearance but lets him come up to John's room. Outside the room they argue over Yoko’s decision not to call in specialists from other major hospitals. While they argue John flatlines and though he stabilises Yoko has a police officer drive Paul to a hotel.


	4. The Press

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul faces the press.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while. I've been sick. It's like my body is slowly shutting down but I'm on the mend. Here's the next part. With a changed title due to someone else posting a fic with the same title and premise. That sort of depressed me a bit. Like should I even bother continuing this? I kind of like this title better anyway though.
> 
> Sorry this chapter is sort of blah. It's one of those in between ones

"I'll do it," Paul said.

Yoko gave him a startled look, nearly dropped her cigarette. "You'll do what? Talk to the press?"

Paul gave her a small shrug. "Go call Sean, sit down for a bit."

She contemplated his offer for a moment. "Better not," she said at last. "It'll look funny. Don't you think it'll look funny?"

He tried to imagine Yoko talking to the press if Linda were in hospital. That wasn't the same at all though, was it? Paul shrugged. He decided to hold off on calling Linda until he had more information instead he went to the loo and washed his face. He looked frankly terrible, the dark circles under his eyes, the scruff on his cheeks, he looked unwashed and hungover, puffy and exhausted. He smelled like cigarettes and cold sweat.

He couldn't decide if John would be flattered that he looked like a mess or disgusted. He washed his face, swirled a bit of tap water in his mouth and spit it out. Stepping out of the bathroom he walked straight into Yoko. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably and her mouth was a ragged hole of shock.

"What's happened?" Paul asked.

Yoko let out a series of jagged sobs like a machine gun blast and stepped into Paul's arms. He tucked her head under his chin and held her in silence for a moment his stomach a block of ice.

"Is John…?" he let the words trail off. He could feel her head shake beneath his chin.

"You can go talk to them. If you really meant it."

It turned out, a woman had accosted Yoko in the bathroom, shouting it was all her fault John was shot. Yoko was badly shaken and trembling. Paul led her back to John's room and deposited her into Officer Brennan's capable hands. Then Paul took the lift to the ground floor and strode to the main entrance of the hospital. The press was gathered there like vultures, necks craning towards the door waiting for the slight figure of Yoko Ono to appear. Paul let his breath out in a slow stream, counted to four like he was counting off a song. Then he stepped into the fray.

At first, no one spoke. Then one journo called out: "It's Paul, Paul over here!"

Paul turned his head automatically, blinked at the starburst flash of camera lights.

Are you here to see John?

What's his condition?

When did you arrive?

Are you two still fighting?

"Paul," one reporter asked in a booming voice. Are you visiting John Lennon? Is he critical?"

"Clearly," Paul said tartly, regarding the first question. Then he paused to gather his thoughts and continued, "His condition is stable for now. The good doctors are doing everything they can."

"Where's Yoko? Is she okay with you being here?"

Paul scanned the crowd and raised an eyebrow. "She's talking to her son. Sent me out here to talk to you lot. Show some humanity. Leave the poor woman alone."

There was a buzz in the crowd like a field alive with locusts. 

"Where were you when you found out he was shot?" a woman asked.

More flashes of camera lights, more whispers.

"At home. Linda was taking the kids to school."

Paul prayed they didn't ask who called him with the information because he would sound like a wanker saying he didn't know. 

"Paul, you and John haven't exactly been on the best terms since the band broke up. How did it feel when you heard he was shot?"

Paul felt a pain in his chest like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter and then a surge of rage.

"How did I feel? It's a drag, isn't it? How would you feel?"

A bunch of them laughed unkindly, there was a sound of incredulousness from the others. Paul felt a sickening wave of impotent anger. He wished he hadn't offered to speak 

"Have you and John reconciled? Is that what you're here to do? Or is it because of legal issues, in the event of his death?"

"John and I are close. Closer than brothers. All that stuff is in the past. I'm just here to show my support."

Paul ended the impromptu press conference feeling sullied and foolish without really knowing why. He should have mentioned Sean more, he should have mentioned Yoko. He might have mentioned his own family getting ready to join him as soon as he called to update them.

As Paul walked back into the main hall he spotted Yoko by the elevators, her face cold and blank. Her hair was neatly combed and tied back. When he approached her she tilted her head to one side.

"Any news?" he asked her hopefully.

She shook her head. "There won't be any for a while. They have him in an induced coma for the time being."

Paul looked down at his shoes uncomfortably and so did she. For a moment they were both humbled by the gravity of the situation.

"I suppose it could have been worse, the press, I mean. They could have asked if the Beatles are getting back together. Ringo called. He expects to arrive from L.A. in the morning," she said.

Paul raised his eyebrows. "George?"

She pursed her lips slightly. "He called and left a message. I'll have to get back to him when I'm able to go home."

"You should go home, see your son. What did you tell him?"

Yoko hesitated and folded her arms over her chest. "His daddy is sick but the doctors are making him better."

They looked at each other for a long while in silence. Paul remembered the woman she had been. That changeling woman in white who turned John's head with a few well placed words and that soft, soft voice. She'd seemed otherworldly, wrong. He realised now what John had seen in her all those years ago. She had a core of iron but also a vulnerable side. Paul reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "I've got to call my wife."

"You should check in somewhere. Get some sleep. He's okay, Paul. For now," she urged him.

Paul changed some bills into coins and called the international operator, the pay phone was eating his money dollars at a time. By the time Heather got Linda for him he was very irritable indeed.

"So why didn't you get a hotel and call me from there?" Linda asked. "Nevermind. How is he?"

Paul gave her a rough update and explained about the press. 

"I think I fucked that one up, Lily. Put my foot in it."

"Well, wouldn't be the first time," she said pragmatically. "Look, it'll be alright. It always is. Just concentrate on John for now. And take care of yourself."

He promised her he would.

"I love you, Paul," Linda said. "Get a hotel. We'll try to join you beginning of next week."

"I love you," he replied but his money had already run out. He knew she didn't really have to hear it, she knew he loved her but somehow the fact that their conversation had cut out at exactly that moment felt unlucky.

Paul hung up the phone and considered his options. He could ask about hotels at the front desk, get a room. He could get a warm meal, a good night's sleep. He couldn't see Ringo like this, unwashed and grieving. He always felt like he needed to be strong for Ringo, he needed to be in control. It was funny because Ringo was the oldest, he was always their rock. Ringo had survived his early brushes with death, the wretchedness of his childhood in Dingle, he'd probably survive them all.

Maybe he needed to be strong because Ringo was one of the few people in the world who knew how he really felt about John. And he'd know when he saw him exactly why Paul was here now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Paul: 
> 
> A. Get a hotel and come back to meet Ringo in the morning?
> 
> B. Stay in hospital and wait.
> 
> If you chose A for the previous part: Yoko would have gone to talk to the press. After calling Linda ,Paul finds a journalist in the lobby of the hospital. Assuming he's trying to finangle his way to John, Paul punches him and has to apologise and promise him an exclusive to avoid him pressing charges.

**Author's Note:**

> Does Paul:
> 
> A. wait for news from the hospital about John's condition before travelling to New York with Linda and the kids to support him.
> 
> B. drive to the airport now and try to get on the first flight to New York on his own?


End file.
